(Bubba, the patient every Southern dentist knows all too well)

Yep! Bubba belongs to those good ole boys, all sorta dense,

Not only do they lack the ‘smarts’, they got no common sense.

Four by fours with gun racks placed in rear windows is their thing,

And when they go a huntin’, it’s a flabbergasting fling.

There’s horn blowing, hee-hawing, chewing and spitting Redd Man,

And guzzling cases of Bud Light and gorging all they can.

They play goofy pranks and take shots at varmints on the run.

They tell ‘tall’ and ‘taller’ tales, all in their pursuit of fun.

One weekend, they take bets on who will bag a ten-point buck.

Each might lay claim to that jackpot with a little bit of luck.

But No! Rain and fog combine, and their vision is not so clear.

Alas! One of Bubba’s buddies screams with buckshot in his rear.

Back home, Bubba also suffers a most terrible fate.

Having never kept his recalls, it’s now much too late.

"Oh! I’ve the Mother of all toothaches, and I swear to all,

It’s midnight, and this torture is driving me up the wall."

His teeth throb in bold rhythm to the pound of each heartbeat;

His stomach growls in refrain, but no way can he eat.

Sleep is out of the question, for there’s no rest this somber night.

He paces the floor o’er and o’er just praying for daylight.

Despaired, he ransacks nook and cranny in hopes the pain to kill,

But his needle-in-a-haystack hunt yields not a single pill.

In a frenzy, he thinks of ice and crams his swollen mouth full.

"I’m snake bit!" he yells, "Ice Your Pain is some quack’s line-of-bull!"

He reasons, "Well, I’ll try heat, it might prove the remedy."

But heat only intensifies his wailing symphony.

Bubba slumps in agony with hand pressed against his jaw.

In his vague-bent-out-of-shape mind, he dwells on ‘Murphy’s Law’.

He is now petrified about what his dentist might say.

Due to his own stupidity, Doc might turn him away.

For Doc had cautioned him, "You ignore your teeth so well.

Yet, you use them lavishly every day, I can tell."

Wallowing in misery, Bubba clings to a strong belief,

That Doc will take pity on him and offer some quick relief.

Then, he recalls Doc’s advice a year ago last fall,

"If you want to keep your teeth in place, you best swing at the ball.

Compare your dental care to batting in a softball game.

You’re given only three strikes, and each one bears a name.

Strike One is a missed ball for you and a teetotal loss,

Because you don’t brush enough, and you never ever floss.

Strike Two is a fouled ball, a loss with all due respect,

For all your cavities, you foolishly opted to neglect.

Strike Three’s the last call if you don’t make this pitch a sure hit,

By honoring your appointments and keeping your teeth fit."

Bubba’s woeful night ends, but he can barely truck through town.

His jaw is swollen to his eye, and the pain hasn’t slowed down.

But Doc has agreed to see him soon as an emergency.

Poor Bubba feels like he’s a tooth-yanking catastrophe.

He presumes that his brain has shrunk under his gimmie cap,

And Doc’s all fed up fooling with a bone-headed sap.

But the greatest fear for Bubba is without a single doubt,

That Doc will shake his head and excitedly shout,

Reprinted with permission from the Mississippi Dental Association Journal, Michael Nash, DDS, Editor